


want my marrow

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Fingering, Fluff, Sex Pollen, soft dom natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: even when natasha’s infected with a mysterious substance on a mission, she still wants to take care of you
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Reader
Kudos: 103





	want my marrow

Natasha’s job includes a lot of weird shit – alien invasions, Hydra, some purple dude who never learned that Malthusianism is dead wrong. This is why when she accidentally came into contact with very radioactive material while raiding the possible base of a bioterrorist, she didn’t sweat it.

When she told you about the mission the morning after she got back, though, she _definitely_ sweat it.

(Sweated it?)

“Natasha, I am going to take you to see Bruce _now_ ,” you tell her calmly, abandoning your large bowl of cucumber slices. The woman in question wouldn’t protested, but you also promised shower sex later that day and didn’t want to ruin her chance at one of her favorite sexual acts.

It was awhile before Bruce cleared her, about three hours – not including the two hours before he convinced you that she was safe to touch.

“I need you to understand that Natasha is not radioactive her. It might have affected her and her body, but will not affect yours,” he explains, trying to calm you as you stood behind the observation window. “It’s okay to be around her.”

Your eyes flit between him and Natasha, who was still sitting on the disinfected seat in the quarantine room. “A-are you sure?”

Bruce nods, softening his facial features. “One hundred percent.”

It takes a long while before you say anything back, whispering a small “okay” before moving to slowly open the heavy door that kept theoretical pathogens and whatever else required someone to be quarantined out of the air circulating the entirety of Stark Tower.

When you step into the bright, white room Natasha immediately runs to you, trapping you in her arms as she inhales the mixed scents of your favorite lotions and perfume.

“Can we go home?” she mumbles into your hair.

You nod, kissing her temple. “Yeah, babe, let’s get you home.”

Bruce told her to “take it easy,” wanting to keep cortisol levels down and to make sure nothing that could be triggered by lack of sleep reared inside of her. The bedrest order is apparently necessary, because as soon as you walk through the door of the bedroom in your shared Stark Tower apartment she collapses face-down onto the unmade bed.

You suppress a giggle (but not a smile) as you tuck her in, positioning a pillow under her head and taking her shoes off and unzipping her worn hoodie. It takes awhile to wiggle her tactical pants from her legs, but you leave her in the undershirt and plain cotton underwear.

With those put aside, you join her in bed and curl around her, pressing your cheek to the bunched-up hood before throwing your arm and leg over her. It’s sweet, cozy, _quiet_ , and you into a deep slumber that only rivals hers.

It’s a long while before you wake up. You’re a little disoriented, confused as to why you’re now on your back instead of how you fell asleep – on your stomach; your cheeks are hot, but not from being pressed against the thick, fleece-lined hoodie Natasha was wearing.

_Where is she_? You thought, trying to find your mental footing as you look around the room. For a moment you’re overcome with fear, terrified the radiation had caused some adverse effects that would leave the love of your life in much worse condition than before. Scenes from that miniseries about that Soviet nuclear reactor explosion Natasha made you watch flash in front of your eyes – visions of her body covered in blisters and blood flowing from every orifice and her withering away before you can ask her to marry you and, and-

A moan coming from the large shared bathroom stops your thoughts in its tracks.

“Babe?” you call out, slowly climbing out of the large bed. “Nat? Are you okay in there?”

Another moan, this one closer to a wail than the last one, is the only thing you get back.

When you enter the doorway and step onto the tiled floor, your eyes immediately find the figure that’s hunched in the shower – drenched in ice cold water. You’re too tired to truly comprehend what’s happening, but your girlfriend’s large, pathetic eyes tell you everything you need to know: _that she’s in pain_.

You move to turn off the water, joining her on the cold floor and pulling her into your arms.

“What do you need, baby?” you ask. “What can I do to help you feel better?”

Of all the responses you were expecting, the one you get shocks you the most.

“Please let me fuck you,” she begs – tears pricking at her eyes as she nuzzles into the warmth of your neck. “Please – I promise I can make you feel so good, I promise, I-“

You cut her off with a kiss to her forehead, cupping her wet face in your hands to make her look at you.

“Babe, it’s okay,” you tell her. “It’s okay, I trust you.”

Slowly, but surely, you both silently make your way back to bed, facing each other as you both lay on your sides.

“Are you sure?” she asks after a long while. “Are you sure that you can trust me?”

You give her a small nod. “Of course I do.”

One second, she’s laying there, face awash with relief, and the next second her lips are locked with yours and your girlfriend is pushing you until you tip backwards onto your shared bed.

Natasha’s lips are already traveling from your own lips and down between your breasts. Your heart – once racing from fear – now slams against your ribs from arousal alone.

“God,” her whispered words send goosebumps shooting across your skin. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen…”

If this were any other situation, a small fire would light itself over your skin, heating it beyond comprehension; you’d push back against Natasha and her compliments and hope she’d let the topic drop.

Unfortunately, it seems your lover is Hell bent on expressing her affections, even as she slips your pajama pants off and cups your mound.

“I know I don’t tell I love you enough,” she murmurs, your words punctuated by two fingers easily entering you. “Sometimes you just look so beautiful I don’t want to tell you in case I ruin the moment…”

You’re about to say something, but the part of your brain controlling speech is soon overwhelmed by the feeling of her other hand rubbing at your clit.

“Sh…,” Natasha leaves kisses on your temple. “Sh, my love, don’t speak, I’ll take care of you.”

And _God_ , does she – making you come over and over as you lay under her, only stopping to catch your breath or take sips of water from the half-empty bottles that populate your matching bedside tables.

It could be hours – or maybe even a full day – later when Natasha finally stops, her desire to pleasure you satiated. You’re exhausted as well, but certainly not in the same way your girlfriend is, which becomes evidence when she collapses into the center of the bed.

Once again, you curl around her, listening to her breathing become more even.

“Now sleep, love,” you tell her. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

And, to your comfort, she does.


End file.
